Flights
by himitsutsubasa
Summary: Wings. Not uncommon, not at all rare. Slash, and not. Depends on your goggles.


Unoriginal Wings!CL

Bad news, lot. Looks like there won't be a season two. Ever.

Sorry, mates. Wall of Disclaimers up.

* * *

"So..." Travis blinks at the wings on Wes's back. They're colorful to say the least. It's been a while since he's seen them. Hell, he's pretty sure no one has seen them since Alex and they were hummingbird wings, like hers, then. So, he can't help but stare.

Wes glares at him. "Where's that report?" Travis blinks and comes back.

"Dude, what happened?" He reaches out to stroke a bright yellow canary feather. It's so pretty, something he would never think suited Wes. No, from the get go, Wes seemed wingless, the grounded type. It's odd to imagine that has wings in the first place. Then, there's the color.

Wes growls a little.

"Molting happened."

So of course he has a trash can filled with long yellow plumage and gray ones sliding out. For a moment, watching Wes preen and clean, Travis panics.

"I'm not a pigeon." Wes apparently learned to read minds in the meantime.

Travis retorts, "From the person molting like a teen?"

Wes doesn't reply.

And of course Dr. Ryan has something to say about it. They look at her chicken wings, and the assorted others at the group, at the next meeting as she passes the week's assignment around. "Wes, I'm glad to see you've decided to come out."

That leads to a lovely discussion and no shortage of innuendos.

"It looks like he's turning into a pigeon," Travis remarks poking Wes's wing. It shifts out of reach and bunches into Wes's body.

"What?" Wes angles his body in his seat. "Is there something wrong with pigeons?"

Travis shrugs twitching his wing tips. "I dunno, sort of fits you though. Grey, boring, by the book, a city dwelling built all building type."

"I'll have you know, some of the greatest cops were pigeons." Wes gestures to his wings "And very clearly, I'm not a pigeon. I'm a cockatiel."

Travis wrinkles his nose. "So, you're one of those tiny, little Aussies?"

Wes rolls his eyes. "They can retain vocabularies of over a hundred words and problem solve. If you ask me, they've got you beat by a mile in the partner department."

He smirks. "Don't worry. They talk just as much as you do, I'll barely feel the difference."

Easy to say, that spiraled down hill.

So, of course, a week later, Wes is popping pain killers and trying not to grimace as more feathers fall out. The next ones look like a peacocks tail and

Travis tries not to be too jealous.

Then, of course, comes the eagle period, which though hurt a whole lot less, still required medication as the wingspan spread. Travis was in charge of making sure Wes didn't take too many, which was easy when the man had a pretty strange pain threshold. Shot? No problem. Someone touches his wings while molting? There is hell to pay.

By the end of it, his wing span is just a little short of Travis's, which amuses Travis and frustrates Wes to no end.

Finally, it looks like Wes isn't a kaleidoscope. The feathers come in a glossy waterproof and immediately Travis senses seagull. He's wrong.

"Grey again?" They're just about to order a Bond marathon and room service for no reason than to do so. Travis isn't quite sure of what to make as he glances over the wings. They look a sort of dull and permanent.

Wes nods and sighs. "Looks like you were right."

"So you admit it?" Travis presses. Wes just breathes deeply and falls face first onto his mattress.

"Sure." Thats wrong.

He flops on the bed. "Tell, Dr. Travis, what's wrong."

Wes makes a funny sound in his throat and Travis can tell if that's just muffled or incoherent. Wes does flip over on his side eventually.

"Damn it, Travis, I just wish that I was a little more..." His wings stretch to brush Travis's, "you know."

Travis knows the color of his wings are nice, if a little unadventurous. He loves his feathers. Girls always try to catch that nuanced color. So far, he's gotten everything from to ochre to amber to dusk rose. But, it looks distinctively muted at first glance, a contrast to his blaring personality.

And suddenly all the different colors make sense.

"Were you feeling in adequate?" Wes groans and the wings wrap around him like a blanket.

"Shut up. At least, I match my bird type." Travis tugs on the loose feathers eliciting a muffled yelp.

"What was that?" He'd never looked up his bird. Far too much pain and trouble.

"Mourning dove. Monogamous," he bites out, like that explains everything, and it does. "Your commitment issues strike that out immediately. You're not nurturing or mourning. For the last time, you sing like a broken R2D2."

"I got moves like Mick Jagger!" Travis runs his hand over his partner's wings. They are showing a little blue in them. "Cops aren't doves and pigeon is a dove, bird brain."

There is a little strangled noise at his words, but Wes relaxes under his hand. The old feathers lay around them littering the bed in a soft down every time Wes moves in the slightest. The wing does lift and Wes looks, for the first time, sheepish. "Sorry, Travis, I think the meds I got to speed up the molting are getting to my head."

Travis bites his lip and nods. Of course. No Wes in his right mind would break down, or at least show it. "You okay, man?"

Wes nods and sits up. "Yeah." Travis squints a little at Wes's wings.

He gives them a decisive tug.

A soft pink blooms on his partner's cheeks and Travis finds a little victory.

"A little lonely?" Wes pulls his wings out of reach.

"You know that's..." He doesn't say it.

Sacred. The winged are privileged and cursed in some ways. The feathery appendages are hard wired into their brains. Therefore, grooming is something a little more intimate. Touching is alright, but there was a time when a wing brush was a sign of too much affection for the public eye.

"Come on," Travis runs his fingers and comes away with old earth colored ones. Wes seems to have a little argument with himself. Funny, because Travis can actually see it happening in real time.

Finally, Wes puts a tentative hand on Travis's plumage. His fingers are cold but quick and loose feathers stand no chance. They brush and preen each other, the sensation of warmth and bond growing. Partners are supposed to trust one another.

"Think this solved our problems?" Travis asks.

Wes, face first in a pillow, snores away. Travis can't blame him. Those are some pretty sensitive wings.

The feathers come in blue-grey with black bands. And a few days later, he figures it out. Google is some sort of omniscient God. Travis grins a little as he reads what kind of bird Wes is, the Kagu. Though, it doesn't spin him for a whorl. Kagus mate for life and that isn't comforting. No, that might just explain why Wes is so hung up on Alex.

Correction: was. Travis knows the ink is drying on the divorce. Wes finally let go. Wes has been cheerier recently and back on the prowl if the missing rings says anything. A small part of him wonders why. He was never good at not listening to that part.

"Travis, stop thinking!" Wes tugs on his wing for good measure.

"Huh?" The tug feels like a flick to the nose and has the same effect.

Wes sighs, long suffering, and face-palms. Travis wonders why but Wes is already walking out the precinct doors. Then, he realizes it's his turn to drive.

Dr. Ryan knows the boys are a little late, but then again everyone has those days. When they do come in, five minutes late (and not later thanks to the police siren), they come in side by side wing to wing.

She smiles. They sit and make their apologies and jokes, but she sees something else. Wes has his shoes ever so slightly turned toward his partner, and Travis's eyes dart across faces, but linger a little longer on a specific one.

"You drive like a maniac," Wes mutters, emphasis on maniac.

"We're not that late." Wes gives Travis a look. "If you were driving, we'd be on the road when new year rolled around."

She watches the ends of their wings brush.

"Enough, boys." They look like guilty school children, but there's that twinkle in their eyes. "Who has any news?"

Travis has his hand up as the last word drops from her mouth.

"Yes, Travis?"

He settles, elbows on his knees, like he's telling a great secret.

"I know why I have commitment issues," his face breaks into a smile. "Can't have a healthy relationship when I'm already married to this stick in the mud." I

And it all goes down hill from there.


End file.
